


it should be a miracle

by togglemaps



Series: the price of survival [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Homophobia, Angst, Angst and Humor, Established Relationship, Friendship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Robb Stark is a Gift, Trauma, Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 03:32:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16485152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togglemaps/pseuds/togglemaps
Summary: Sequel to blood and flesh.Theon does what he can to recover after his oh so gentle treatment at the hands of Ramsay.





	it should be a miracle

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [blood and flesh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15647676). 
> 
> The notes got deleted somehow and now I have to remember what I wrote oh no. This fic deals with the aftermath of Theon being held by Ramsay, so be careful with yourself if you have trauma related triggers. <3 I'll write what happens in the endnotes if you'd like to know before deciding whether or not to read. 
> 
> My tumblr is also [togglemaps](http://togglemaps.tumblr.com/) if you want to drop me an ask or whatever.

The bath had to be emptied out and refilled three times before the maester declared Theon clean enough to begin treating his wounds. He'd shaved Theon’s head before they'd even begun, the hair brittle and swarming with lice. Theon kept wanting to hide his face behind his hands, feeling raw and exposed without his long hair, and the milk of the poppy he'd drunk had left him open and hungry and terrified. Whatever it was that had preserved him, had kept him far away from Ramsay and the dungeon and stink that still clung to him, was gone. 

By the time the maester was done, it was a feat of will that Theon was neither screaming nor crying. He had nearly kneed the man in the face when he'd been tending to his flayed inner thighs; he'd thought himself far past being able to feel anything like that sort of humiliation. Was it good that Ramsay hadn’t taken that from him? He didn’t know. How could any know whether something like that was good or bad? Perhaps one simply had to live with it. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept uninterrupted, couldn’t recall the feeling of waking up without the sound of someone banging on a wooden door, screaming, “Wake up, Reek, wake up!”

 _That isn’t true,_ he thought, _don’t lie._ He could remember Lord Ramsay waking him up with both hands around his throat very well. 

He woke up feeling odd, gluggy and thick. A lot of sleep felt not entirely unlike being utterly exhausted. Grey Wind was sleeping on the bed, curled up in as tiny a ball as a giant direwolf could manage. (This was not particularly small, really, but it was impressive nonetheless.) 

Underneath a cloth, there was bread and butter sitting on the bedside table and he ripped the bread in half, wrapping it in the cloth and hiding it inside one of the empty drawers in one corner of the room. He was exhausted and in even more pain by the time he got back into bed, but more relaxed too. 

He knew there would be plenty of food for him now, that all he need do is ask and someone would fetch it for him. It was the magic of being highborn—food wasn’t so much made as requested. Yet there was no way for him to forget what lack of food felt like, what it was to be able to think of nothing but food because there was no food and it gnawed at him, a constant reminder of where and what he was. 

Now there was something. All he needed to do was get up and go the drawer and there the food would be. 

Robb didn’t bother knocking when he came into the room and Theon cocked an eyebrow at him, annoyed. Robb pulled a chair over from the corner and settled into it, letting out a deep sigh that was at once both mournful and relieved. “You look better,” Robb said, once he was done with his sigh. 

“I look cleaner,” Theon corrected. “If that’s also better, well.” 

Robb, too tired for jokes, just nodded. “Yes. Cleaner.” He hung his head and rubbed at his eyes. He cleared his throat and sniffed. When he looked up, his eyes were wet. “How is this a tragic story? It should be a miracle, but…” 

“It can be both.” It was both. 

“I’ve executed Ramsay Snow and his men.” 

Theon flinched, then laughed. “He liked to be called ‘my lord’.” 

“I’m sure he did,” Robb said, scornful. 

“He found out one of the maids had been calling him a bastard and he killed her. Left her on one of the tables in the dining hall for days, just to make sure no one forgot what would happen.” 

“He’s dead now. He can’t do that to anyone ever again.” 

“But he did it.” Theon smiled, so he wouldn’t sob, and turned his face away. 

 

Grey Wind lay sprawled out on the floor, snoring softly and his tail thumping gently every so often. 

It was a reassuring reminder of where and when he was, that he was safe. That anybody who wanted to get at him would have to get through a man killing direwolf first. Unless, of course, Grey Wind had decided that person was harmless. 

“I brought you some food from the kitchen,” Lady Brienne said, placing a tray on the bed so she could rearrange his pillows for no reason he could understand. She’d just stepped over Grey Wind, who hadn’t even raised his head to greet her. 

“Thank you,” he said, mostly because he wasn't sure what else to say. 

“Do you need help eating?” 

“What? No.” Horrified, he picked up the tray and immediately began eating the chicken soup. “See? All fine.” 

She nodded and then sat down on the bed beside him. 

_What the fuck,_ he thought. 

“I should apologise,” Lady Brienne said, very stiffly. “I prejudged you. I shouldn’t have left you alone, if I had—” 

“We both would have been captured and that would have been worse.” He squirmed, uncomfortable. “You aren’t the first to think you know more of me than you do and you won’t be the last. You are in the sworn service of Lady Stark and she is…well. She isn’t fond of me.” 

“I should have made up my own mind.” 

_You would be only the second to do so,_ he thought, bitter. “I have no interest in pity. I’m no different now than—” He fell silent, because that wasn’t true. “My loyalties are no different than they were. Torture has lent me no special halo, revealed no truths.” 

“I agree,” she said. “I’m different now, not you.” She hesitated. “You were a prisoner. A strange sort of prisoner, true, but a prisoner. It seemed…true, to me, that you would want to return to your people, that you would betray the Starks if given a chance.” 

There was no freedom anywhere for him, nothing for him but Robb. “What does it matter to you?” he snapped. “Would you like to hear that my father forfeited my life when he attacked the North, that I mean less than nothing to him? That I have never heard from my mother or sister all the time I was at Winterfell? A decade I was there, and nothing. That I have no one in all the world but Robb? There, you have heard it. Now get out.” 

She murmured another apology and left.

 

Robb lay beside him on the bed, picking at the cheese and bread and boiled eggs that had been left for Theon’s breakfast. “Lady Brienne told me what you said to her,” Robb said. 

“Of course she did.” 

“Rickon has sent a half dozen letters asking after you since he was left in White Harbor.” 

“Wonderful. I have a married lover and a—what? Six year old boy? Other than that, I have indifference or hatred and little else.” He held up his hand, the missing middle finger enough to turn even his own stomach. “I don’t even have my bow or my strength or the ability to fucking stand up for longer than a few minutes. Don’t ask me for optimism, Robb, you won’t find it. I find myself too close to his dungeon for that.” For a moment, even the implied criticism of Lord Ramsay left him breathless, left him wanting to beg, please, no, please. He clutched Robb’s hand and the feeling passed, far too slowly. 

Robb nodded, thumb gently running up and down as far as it could reach while his hand was clutched in Theon’s. “He’s dead,” Robb said. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it and Theon hoped, desperately, that he wouldn’t mind having to say it over and over again. 

He’s dead, he’s dead. Theon had been taken to see the body and the head that was mounted on the wall. It’s funny, he’d thought. A head mounted on a wall was supposed to inspire fear, surely. But he hadn’t been the only one to stand and stare up at that head and feel relief. “Bastard,” somebody had said, vicious and terrified and relieved all at once. 

“And his men too,” Theon said. 

“And his men too,” Robb agreed. They had been hung and then placed on the wall near Lord Ramsay. “I’ll be back this evening.” 

“You should sleep somewhere else, I know I’m keeping you awake.” During the night, Theon slept little, every noise Ramsay returning, knowing that if he went to sleep he would wake up not able to breath. He was in pain and yet too thin and not able to keep enough food down to be able to take much milk of the poppy for it. Every time he moved, some injured part of him complained; if he stayed in the one position, some part of him would still complain eventually. 

He wasn’t certain how long he’d been here at the Dreadfort, trapped, and he hadn’t asked. He didn’t want to know. It had been long enough to ravage him and leave him a skeleton with skin hanging off it and that was all that mattered.

Ramsay was _dead_. Theon couldn’t get any freer from him than he was right in this moment, and yet…and yet. Ramsay was still whispering in his head, still holding a knife in his hand and stroking his hair and murmuring, “Tell me your name.” 

“I’m not sleeping somewhere else. If you need me, I’m going to be here. I can have someone bring in a palette if—” 

“No. No. He’s—he’s fucking dead. I shouldn’t be—it’s over. It’s done. I shouldn’t be bothered by this anymore.” 

Robb didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, he pressed a kiss to the back of Theon’s hand and said, “I never heard my father speak about his older brother or his sister, did you know that?” 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Theon snapped. 

“He never spoke about them, not ever. He would be withdrawn and quiet and even a little short tempered for a few weeks. Twice a year, it happened, every year. It was Uncle Benjen that had to be the one to explain why. It was when his father and his brother Brandon died, and when his sister died. He never spoke about them, not ever. It was mother’s idea to name Bran after Father’s brother and I don’t—things aren’t over, just because they’re over. Your brothers are dead, but they stay with you. Bran—I don’t know. And Sansa and Arya—” His voice broke. “Father is dead, but it isn’t over. It’s like that, Theon. They’d been dead more than a decade and still, every year…I didn’t understand it then, but I do now.” 

“It should be different,” Theon said, bitter. 

“It isn’t. You know it isn’t.” Robb pressed a kiss to Theon’s temple. “I’ll be back this evening. Send for me if you need me. Grey Wind is staying with you.” 

Theon sighed, still aggrieved. 

 

Lady Brienne brought him his lunch again the next day. She sat on the bed while he ate, not even once looking like she wanted to try and spoon feed him, which made her an improvement on Robb. “I’m not going to apologise,” Theon said, after he was done with his soup. “I’m in a great deal of pain and have been tortured recently, so I’ve decided being short tempered is understandable and forgivable.” 

Brienne nodded. “I agree and, hence, I wasn’t expecting an apology.” 

“I like the word ‘hence’. Also ‘henceforth’. Henceforth, I shall be using the words ‘hence’ and ‘henceforth’ more often.” 

Lady Brienne looked down at the floor, then straightened and looked him in the eye. “Lady Stark is a good woman. Strong, in her own way. Her loyalties are unwavering, but…perhaps those same loyalties lead her to make harsh judgements. Untrue judgements. I’m sorry for believing those judgements without first forming my own.” 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had apologised to him. It must have happened recently, surely. A servant, maybe. 

Theon avoided thinking about Catelyn Stark as much as possible these days. She was in White Harbor with Rickon, and the only way she could make problems for him was via the woman sitting on his bed right now. But Lady Brienne had no cunning whatsoever and a face that revealed a lie faster than she could speak it. He’d know if he had anything to fear from her. “I understand that you have loyalties to Lady Stark that I don’t share, but when she isn’t in the room, questioning my motives and insisting I am a snake seducing her son with evil intent, I have little ill feeling towards her. Hence, I’m choosing to understand and forgive any misunderstandings that have occurred before now.” That was an odd feeling. He wasn’t a particularly forgiving man, not by any description of the word. Jon Snow had once referred to him as ‘prickly and petty’, something that had ironically offended him and led Theon to not speaking to Snow for a fortnight, which in retrospect rather proved Snow’s point. Theon said, awkward, “I don’t have many friends here. The Northmen…don’t like me overly much. Perhaps…” He trailed off. 

She was nodding. “We could be friends, yes, I’d like that.” 

Well, if they were going to be friends… “Do you have a lover?” 

She went bright red. “That’s—I don’t—that is—”

“Well, that’s a no. Prefer men or women? Both?” 

It was odd, how red very pale people could go. “I would rather—I don’t—well—” 

Theon nodded. “That’s an acceptable answer. Do you think we could go for a walk? I’m sick of being stuck here all day.” Grey Wind popped his head up, eager. 

“In your condition…” 

“It’ll be fine. Look at you, strapping woman that you are. Worst comes to worst, you just carry me back to bed. I must weigh less than a sack of potatoes at this point.” He handed her the tray and threw the covers back, placing his feet on the floor. He stared down at them, bandaged to try and keep the flaying wounds on the tops of his feet clean. Ramsay had whipped the bottoms of once, after Theon had tried to get away. Walking now was painful, and exhausting, but nothing like it had been afterwards. Ramsay had made Theon walk from one end of the dining hall to the other, dressed in rags. Ramsay’d thought it wonderful evening entertainment, and his Boys had agreed. Theon looked at Brienne. “Would you get my boots?” 

“We won’t walk far,” she said, as she stood and put the food tray on the side table. “To the stairs and back. It’s…probably good for you.” She didn’t sound at all convinced. 

“You don’t have to worry,” he said. “Robb will know whatever we get up to will have been my idea. He’ll be glad, probably. I’ve been horrifically well behaved up until now.”

 

He awoke from a nap to a very small brown-haired woman sitting at his bedside, neatly embroidering a piece of fine wool. She was pretty and delicate, her heart shaped face lending her a gentle, almost weary look. “Hello,” she said, when she noticed he was awake. “My lord had matters to attend to, but I thought you might want company when you woke up.” 

“I'm afraid we haven't been introduced,” Theon said, tugging awkwardly at the collar of his sleep shirt. 

“I am Roslin Stark, King Robb’s wife.” She smiled and returned to her embroidery. 

He stared at her, baffled. Was this some sort of power play? A threat, even? The Frey’s were far from the most pleasant people he had ever met, though Robb’s squires had seemed nice enough he supposed. 

“I thought maybe we could be friends,” she said. “Or, at least, not enemies. I think my husband would grow to resent me, even hate me, if I forced him to send you away. I am done with scheming and politics and games, Lord Theon. I hope to have left them behind in my father’s house.” 

“You have chosen your husband poorly, then.” 

“I didn't choose my husband, my lord. He was chosen for me. A good man, I think, and nothing like the northern savage I was lead to believe he would be. I cried and cried and cried when I was told I was to marry him, certain I would be beaten and berated and abused and trapped in a frozen wasteland for all my days.” She smiled. “Isn't it funny? I knew my father was a liar and I believed him anyway. My husband cares little for me, I think, but he treats me with more kindness than any amongst my family ever have. Madness on his part, I think, but a good sort of madness. I intend to tell anybody who asks that I don't have my husband’s ear and send them away.”

“Send them to me, you mean.”

“Yes. Not right away, of course, you aren't well enough for that yet, but when your injuries are healed, I see no reason that I can't be our husband’s wife and mother to his children and you his queen.” 

Theon snorted softly. “Our husband,” he said. 

“You don't like that idea?” She looked up from her embroidery, a pained smile on her face. “I have no desire to steal his heart from you, Lord Theon, and I think it might anger him if I tried.” 

“He wouldn't ever hurt you.” That, Theon had no doubt of. Robb was a kind man, with little rage in him for any except those who had murdered his family. Even the heat of battle left him quickly, his blood cooling and leaving him calm in a way Theon had never managed himself. Battle left him half drunk, uncaring of the dead at his feet until he awoke the next morning with their faces lingering behind his eyes. 

“No, but I've had enough of anger and pettiness. It isn't easy to share a husband, I know, but easier than to hate each other, I think.” 

She's young, he thought. Younger than he and Robb had been before they left Winterfell, perhaps. She looked tired and even a little worn already though, like she had a decade of battles behind her and would fight more only if she had to. He'd never considered what it would be like to have grown up amongst the Frey’s, who were selfish and nasty and proud and were loyal to no one, not even each other. Even his own family was better than them, at least from the outside. His brother’s rage had been terrible, but they had protected him as much as they could from their uncles and the cruel, hard men that Balon had surrounded himself with. And, in the end, Theon had had his mother and her family and his sister. If his brothers had been cruel, his cousins hadn’t been; if his father had been uninterested, his uncle Rodrik had always treated him kindly, had taught him to read and write and always been happy to listen to whatever had Theon’s fancy that day. He’d had to forget so much just to survive. Even thinking of his uncle Rodrik brought a lump to his throat now. “It's no easy thing,” he finally said, after a lengthy silence. “When it's your family you need solace from.” 

“No,” she agreed softly. “It isn't.” 

“Perhaps we can be friends.” 

She smiled, and he smiled back.

What a strange thing. If asked a year before, he’d have claimed women made poor friends, for what could he have ever gotten from such a friendship? He’d had few friends in the North and would have said, even to himself, that _he_ had made that decision; that most of the men at Winterfell were beneath him, he who was heir to one of the great houses of Westeros. It wouldn’t have been true. Jon Snow might have counted as a friend, if one choose to count as friend someone you weren’t particularly friendly with. Other than Snow, there had been only Robb. Now, there was Brienne and Roslin as well. 

 

Robb had lingered at the Dreadfort for as long as he could, but there was only so long they could wait. One of the maid’s helped Theon get dressed and Brienne wrapped him up in two cloaks and took three furs to wrap around him in the wagon they would be travelling in. The maester had given them several dosages of milk of the poppy, which was to be taken half a dosage at a time due to his weight and diet of soup and bread. 

A hundred metres down the road, he was fairly certain he could take it all at once and the only way he wouldn’t still be in pain was if he was dead. 

“I have the feeling this is going to be the worst day of my life,” Theon told Brienne. “Think about the kind of days I’ve had recently. I think this will still be worse. And Drowned God save me, _tomorrow_. Tomorrow will be the same.” 

She offered up some milk of the poppy. 

“I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.” 

 

Jon had never been gladder to see anyone in all his days. If he lived to be as old as Maester Aemon, Jon doubted he’d ever be gladder to to see anyone appear over the horizon. The Direwolf banner and Robb, Robb come to save them. 

He expected a rather effusive hello, considering how long it had been since they’d seen each other, but Robb merely waved at him as he dismounted from his horse and yelled, “Greatjon!” 

The Greatjon had arrived at the front of the army, a handful of minutes before Robb himself. “Already started!” the enormous man yelled back. 

Jon had to break into a run to catch up to Robb, who was stepping into a covered wagon. 

“I’m sorry,” Robb said. “We’ll say hello properly in a minute, alright? It’s good to see you.” 

It took a moment to realise Robb was talking to him. “It’s fine. And it can’t possibly be as good for you to see me as it is for me to see you.” 

Robb laughed and, carefully, slowly, walked down the steps of the wagon, his arm wrapped around—no. That couldn’t—Jon gaped, though he tried not to. There was no shortage of hunger on the Wall and certainly no shortage beyond it, but it wasn’t until he stared up at what was left of Theon Greyjoy, that he realised he’d never seen what starved, not hungry, looked like. 

“Hells, Greyjoy,” Jon said. “You look awful.” 

“Thank you, Snow,” Greyjoy said, rolling his eyes. “And you look pretty as a winter rose. Have you done something different with your hair?” 

“Stop it, both of you, we have to get him out of the cold. Do you need me to carry you?” 

“ _Carry_ —no! Robb, if you don’t stop with the mother henning you can stop worrying about the Wildlings and Stannis and everybody else, because _I will murder you_.” 

A tall, blond woman, dressed in armour and with a sword strapped at her waist, wrapped an arm around Theon’s other side. “Please don’t threaten the king,” she said, pained. 

“He’s not actually going to do it,” Jon said. 

“Obviously,” Greyjoy said. 

“I hear his mother voicing her displeasure when he does it.” 

“You’ve never heard me do it before!” Greyjoy protested. 

Confused, Jon asked, “Greyjoy’s mother?” 

“The king’s mother,” the woman said. 

“This is Lady Brienne,” Robb said. “She’s a sworn sword of my mothers.” 

“A sworn sword. Of Lady Stark.” Still confused, he glanced from Robb to Lady Brienne and back again. 

“The king has informed me you are a true, loyal and honourable brother, beloved by him and his siblings,” Brienne said, sounding very earnest. 

Greyjoy snickered. 

“That’s…nice of you to say, Robb,” Jon said. “To your mother’s sworn sword. Who is sworn to your mother.” 

“Yes, I’d never heard of a woman having a sworn sword either, but if Arya were here, I’m sure she could name a dozen.” A moment after he fell silent, Robb looked stricken. 

“Yes,” Jon said, mood soured. “I’m sure she could.” 

They were slowly moving towards the castle that stewards had been preparing for Robb since the forward riders had arrived almost a week before. Jon fell into step beside Robb, though it felt more like walking with Maester Aemon than it did with Robb. 

“Will it be possible for Theon to see your maester?” 

“Of course,” Jon said. He called Satin over, who he told to run to fetch Maester Aemon. “We’ve had rooms set up for you. Unfortunately, they are up a number of stairs.” 

Theon groaned. “I can—yes. That’s fine. That’s absolutely fine. I can do stairs. I survived Ramsay fucking Snow and his fucking knives, I can survive stairs. Stairs. Yes.” 

“That wasn’t as convincing as I think you were hoping it would be,” Jon said. 

“I hate you, Snow,” Theon said. They’d reached the bottom of the stairs and he shrugged off both Robb and Brienne’s arms from around him. “Go tend to your men, both of you. I’m sure there are more important things to do than watch me walk up some stairs. Brienne and I can manage, can’t we?” 

“Of course,” Brienne said, not sounding at all certain. 

“You don’t know where you’re going,” Jon said. 

“Fine. Robb has better things to do. Go.” 

Robb didn’t move. 

“Don’t worry,” Jon said, and grasped his brother’s shoulder firmly. “I’ll send for you if anything happens.” 

“Very reassuring,” Theon said, as soon as Robb was out of sight. 

“He’s gone, what else do you want?” Jon said. 

The stairwell was narrow and the steps themselves not particularly high and Theon braced himself against both walls, walking so slowly up the steps that Maester Aemon was at the bottom of them before they were at the top. Maester Aemon reached the top of the stairs as Brienne was tucking Greyjoy into the bed with no less brusque efficiency than Old Nan. 

“I’ll leave you to Maester Aemon, Greyjoy. How about you wait a couple days before trying the stairs again? Might not take all afternoon next time.” 

“Fuck you, Snow,” Theon said, surprisingly cheerful. “You’re a good sort.” 

“Thank you?” Jon said, baffled. 

“You’re _very_ welcome.” 

As he left, he heard Maester Aemon ask how he was feeling and Theon reply, “Absolutely horrid, which is a step up really. Brienne gave me quite a bit of milk of the poppy before we arrived, so I’m assuming it won’t last. Still, I got up the stairs all by myself.”

 

On the third day at Castle Black, Theon put on every cloak and fur on that he could find and forced Brienne to take him up to the very top of the Wall. (He was fairly certain she was regretting their newly proclaimed friendship already. It’s one thing to be thrown up on a time or two while travelling up the King’s Road, another thing entirely to risk a king’s wrath if he found out you’d helped his bedridden lover spend time at the top of the tallest building in the known world, in what had to also be the coldest place in the known world. Still, he was rather enjoying having someone to bully into doing things with him.) 

It was the most breathtaking sight he had ever seen. Even the Narrow Sea, which he’d spent so much time staring at while in White Harbor, wasn’t so ridiculous a sight as this. He leaned over to stare down to the ground and immediately regretted it—the sudden attack of vertigo was so severe, he had to grab ahold of Brienne to keep his feet. “Absurd,” he said. 

“In a good way,” she agreed. “I don’t understand it at all. How on earth did they build this thing?” 

“Magic, apparently,” the man of the Night’s Watch standing near them said. “You really wanna know, you should ask Sam. He’s got the book learning. Knows all sorts of things like that.” 

Theon frowned. “Yes, but do we know how they built it or do we just think we know how they built it?” 

The man stared at him blankly. “What?” 

“Well, I can _think_ that Jon Snow is going to die a virgin, but I don’t know it for sure. It might not be true, but if I write it down and say it is, who’s to disagree?” 

The man snickered. “I heard he laid with a Wildling woman while he was with them, actually.” 

“While he was _what_?” Theon said, delighted. 

“Hells, Greyjoy!” 

_Oh dear,_ Theon thought. Wasn’t all that often that Robb brought out the Greyjoy. “How did you even know we were up here?” 

Brienne was already apologising. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. He’s….well, I thought it would be better to go with him than leave him to his own devices.” 

“It’s fine, Lady Brienne. I can only thank you for ensuring he didn’t somehow fall over the edge.” Robb glared. “And the Greatjon’s youngest told me he saw you crossing the yard, heading to the winch cage. We’re being attacked by Wildlings with alarming regularity, you do know that?” 

Theon ignored that last bit. “And he just went running right to you, of course he did. What a little squealer. Did you have him watching for us?” 

Robb wasn’t a good liar, had never been a good liar, and being a king had only made him a slightly better liar. A person who knew Robb less well wouldn’t have even noticed any improvement. “No,” Robb said, rubbing his arm and then crossing them over his chest. “Of course not. Not that it matters, you need to get out of the cold.” 

“Brienne, if you ever have the opportunity to knock that little squealer into the dirt, promise me you’ll do it,” Theon said, on their way back down the Wall. 

“I…can’t promise that.” 

Theon rolled his eyes. Of course she couldn’t. “Honour is overrated, I hope you know that.” 

Robb tried to pretend the sound he made wasn’t a laugh, but he wasn’t fooling Theon. Robb cleared his throat, then said, “Being unwilling to push a 12 year old into the dirt for doing as he’s ordered isn’t anything worth criticising.” 

“So you do admit you had him spying on me!” 

“I’m very pleased you’re no longer feeling quite so awful, Theon, but is there any chance you could be less difficult at the same time?” 

“No. You have no idea how boring it is being stuck in bed all day when you’re not exhausted enough to sleep all the time anymore. Awful.” He couldn’t stay in bed, not without Lord Ramsay crawling his way into it with him. Better to risk whatever Robb feared happening when he left his bed, than have a dead man join him in it.

 

Robb was late coming to bed that night. _Perhaps he thinks it punishment,_ Theon thought, long after his dinner had been consumed and taken away. Even the idea made his food sit uneasily in his stomach. Let Robb be angry, let him be disappointed, let him be anything at all—but the idea of punishment made him feel like Ramsay would appear any moment with his knife and his awful, ugly smile. 

When Robb finally appeared, he looked more irritated than anything, though not with Theon. “I understand that most of the truly experienced men are dead or elsewhere,” Robb said, as he sat to take off his boots. “But is there truly no one to make even the most simple of decisions other than me?” 

“Have you told them you’re not planning on taking the black?” Theon asked. Did he sound like anything other than tired and frightened? Gods, he hoped so. 

Robb smiled, which was far more than Theon’s poor joke deserved. “I think they know that. At the very least, Jon and Donal Noye should know how to make these sorts of decisions.” 

“Everything needs to function as one, you know that.” It had been one of the hardest things, early in the war. It was easy enough for the Greatjon to command his men and Lady Mormont hers and Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel theirs, but to get them to be an army and not simply a collection of armed men had been difficult. They had all had to learn how to work together, Robb most of all. How long ago had that been? He wasn’t even sure. It felt like a long time ago, but, in truth, it was probably not long ago at all. It felt like it had been twice as long since he left Winterfell as it had been since he had arrived there originally. 

Robb sighed. “I know. And most of the men are my men.” He leaned back against the pillows and eyed Theon carefully. Robb always looked worried these days. The war, the wildlings, his brothers, his sisters, his mother, his wife, Theon—nothing was easy for him anymore. There was no solace to be found for him anywhere. “How are you after your trip up the Wall?” Robb asked. 

“Fine. Maester Aemon think it’s good for me to walk around. Maybe not to the top of the Wall, but…you want the scarring to be flexible, like skin is naturally, and moving around helps that.” Maester Aemon had told him that while he and Samwell Tarly had looked over his wounds that afternoon and Theon had made him repeat it after he’d called Brienne into the room. “I need a witness, or Robb won’t believe me,” he’d told her. (Samwell Tarly had looked ready to throw up most of the time he’d been in the room. Who thought that one would make a good black brother, Theon didn’t know.) “Brienne was there, you can ask her if you don’t believe me,” he said. 

Robb smiled. “You don’t need someone to corroborate it, Theon. I believe you.” 

Theon opened his mouth and then shut it again. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been—difficult.” The words nearly caught in his throat. He hated apologising, hated it more than almost anything. He’d spent so long apologising when he’d first come to Winterfell that he’d come to resent it rather quickly and had often preferred a beating rather than another forced apology. A beating he at least understood. 

“You haven’t been, though.” Robb frowned, then pulled his leather jerkin over his head, threw it over a chair and laid down beside Theon still in his shirt and trousers. “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“I don’t want to fuck.” 

“Of course you don’t, you’re recovering from being tortured.” Robb wriggled out of his trousers and threw them on the same chair as his leather jerkin and crawled under the covers. 

Theon scowled. “I don’t want to fuck and I don’t….know if I’m going to want to when I’m recovered. The idea just…” Made him want to put a wall the size of the one right near them between him and Robb until he stopped wanting to claw his own skin off. 

“Alright,” Robb said. He reached out, his hand hovering over Theon’s arm. “Is it alright to touch?” 

“Yes,” he said, hoarse. “I don’t understand you at all. What sort of man has his lover tell him he doesn’t want to have sex, maybe ever again, and just says ‘alright’?” 

Robb snorted. “I want you to imagine for a moment that I had been taken captive and tortured and that after, I didn’t want to fuck, didn’t know if I’d ever want to ever again, but that didn’t mean I didn’t love you.” 

“But it _wasn’t_ you.” 

“It could have been. It could have been anybody. And if all there was to us was sex, don’t you think I could have given it up easily when I was engaged to be married? Don’t you think you could have given it up easily, when your father protested? I love you. If I’d been a second son and not a first, I would have married you. Hells, if things had been different, I still would have married you, heirs be damned.” Robb yawned. “I know you don’t believe me, but that’s fine. It’s true. I’m not Robert Baratheon, I’m not planning on having a dozen bastards, and twice as many lovers. I just want you.” 

“You really think it was only two dozen?” 

Robb snorted. “Good point. Can we sleep now, love?” 

Theon nodded, and settled carefully on his side. “You’re annoyingly kind, you know that?” 

“And you’re just annoying. Go to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with the aftereffects of Theon being tortured, both physically and psychologically. Ramsay doesn't manage to force Theon into the Reek persona in this universe (as he isn't there so long and he's much better off when he's taken prisoner), but he was isolated, starved and humiliated while he was held prisoner. After being rescued, Theon mostly deals with this situation by smiling with gritted teeth and avoiding looking too closely at how he's feeling. He's also sex phobic (though not touch phobic I don't think?) for the moment. 
> 
> I'm certain I'm forgetting something, so if you think there's anything to add please comment and tell me.


End file.
